


Lines in the sand.

by noelia_g



Category: Angel The Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-25
Updated: 2010-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't look at me, turns his eyes away. Once those who dared to look had their eyes gauged out, or melted in their sockets, and their suffering was there to be an amusement for us, like an exotic creature brought in for the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines in the sand.

This is important to you. Things have names.  
-Illyria, 'Shells'

He calls me a murderer. Small human word, unimportant, inadequate.

Is the sun to blame, when it dries out human bones and turns them into dust? Would you blame the ocean when it washed away your name, written in the sand in a feeble attempt at leaving your mark? Everything human is like a castle built of sand, and the ocean will be merciless, as mercy would imply interest.

His grief is a whisper lost in the wind, not worthy of my notice.

 

He can't look at me, turns his eyes away. Once those who dared to look had their eyes gauged out, or melted in their sockets, and their suffering was there to be an amusement for us, like an exotic creature brought in for the show.

I look like her.

I am her. Her blood sings in my veins, warm and rich. Her memories rest in the tips of my fingers, spark after spark setting the fires in the nerve endings. My voice speaks her words, my words are her song, and my steps are her dance, danse macabre, tondue.

The only border is the line in the sand, and the tide had already came.

 

He triumphs over me. How ould you call it? What you call things is important, names are the oldest, simplest, primitive form of magic, brought down now to the minor detail. Now they call things to define them, not to reign over them. Fools.

They lock themselves in their little boxes, small like their minds, two hemispheres, billions of synapses, no understanding at all. They need to know, now, always, if they're dead or alive, good or evil, here or nowhere.

This body is a little box, a dollhouse, not built to last. I walk, I talk, like the invisible strings were pulling me, nothing for me to control. Dreams, thoughts, desires, sounds, words, words, words. A cage. Shackles. Threads, holding me back, a spider's web, fragile like veins.

 

He's dying. Death reveals the truth, and his truth is found in a lie.

Human rituals of death and passing are an illusion, a deception. This is a lie for him.

Tears are a part of the ocean - poetry is as truthful as any other lie - salty water blurring the lines in the sand.

Her memories are my grief, her thoughts are my words, her dreams are my despair. Her voice is my lament.

My grief is like the wind over the ocean. The storm is coming.


End file.
